


Echo of Victory

by Cefhclwords



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-06
Updated: 2019-06-06
Packaged: 2020-04-11 16:56:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19113895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cefhclwords/pseuds/Cefhclwords
Summary: "Easily, his mind begins to wander to the game, the close shots, every near miss, and he feels a heat growing under his skin, chest shrinking and breath catching. His mind began to obsess over the what if’s, the chances they should have taken. The feeling he hates the most is the ache to try again, for another 90 minutes on the pitch, just one more chance for them to make it. They’d be fighting so hard this whole season and this feels like being robbed of the final knockout punch after endless rounds of swings. Just as the burn in his chest becomes mirrored behind his eyelids, a sound prickles his ears, the familiarity making his eyes blink open slowly."The champions league final, or really, the aftermath.





	Echo of Victory

**Author's Note:**

> Hey hi hello! These are works I originally posted to my tumblr: cefhclwords but I am also posting them here! please enjoy and give me any feeback, I'm a little nervous putting my work here and would love to hear what you think! :)

It takes them a while to actually see each other in the end. After the final whistle, they had both become focused on managing their own disappointment, taking time separately to run it through their minds. 

They were similar in that way, they both liked to keep a strong face on the pitch even after a loss, respect the game and clasp hands with the opposing teams. Sportsmanship was something both Eric and Dele valued when in the face of the crowd.

There were some small differences in how they digested the loss, Dele closed off, kept his distance with polite nods and small smiles, but ultimately keeping to himself. 

Eric took on his big brother role, ignoring the ache of disappointment, anger, hurt- in order to take care of others. He pulls Trips into a tight hug, squeezes Lucas’s shoulder and mumbles a firm “next time”. Kane shares a sad smile and firm nod with, he knows these boys and knew what they each need after a loss. Eric respects it- knows to either keep his distance, be extra tactile, joke around or just be a silent figure of support alongside them. He prides himself on it really, ensuring they each of the boys don’t take themselves down too hard.

So it’s finally when the noise of crowds have been shut away behind doors, the sound of cleats on linoleum flooring has ceased; that Eric allows himself a moment in his own mind. 

 

In solitude he slides the medal from his chest, tucking it into the corner of his small wash bag. He knows he will look back at the token with proud, a marker of the year despite injury and hardship they made it right till the end. But, for the now the medal feels heavy around his neck, the ribbon of it itching his neck.

It feels shameful as much as he doesn’t want to admit. As much as he’d never say it out loud, the feeling of letting down their supporters is often what weighs the heaviest.

Sitting on the bench, with downcast eyes, Eric unthreads the laces of his boots and strips them off before doing the same with his socks and shin guards. Before long he is only sat in his shorts, phone in hand as he replies to the few texts he wants to, messages from his family, short but enough to reassure them he was going ok after the loss.

He found himself fearful and tired at the collection of social media apps on his phone, powering down the device before chucking it into his bag, leaning back and debating if he wanted a shower here or back at the hotel. With his eyes shut, Eric focused on the sounds around him, the shuffling of feet across the floor, soft conversation between players and some over the phone, the showers running in the distance.

Easily, his mind begins to wander to the game, the close shots, every near miss, and he feels a heat growing under his skin, chest shrinking and breath catching. His mind began to obsess over the what if’s, the chances they should have taken. The feeling he hates the most is the ache to try again, for another 90 minutes on the pitch, just one more chance for them to make it. They’d be fighting so hard this whole season and this feels like being robbed of the final knockout punch after endless rounds of swings. Just as the burn in his chest becomes mirrored behind his eyelids, a sound prickles his ears, the familiarity making his eyes blink open slowly.

Dele doesn’t speak, instead shuffles a few steps closer, leaning down before he presses his lips to the crown of Eric’s head, exhaling through his nose as he does. Eric’s hand moves to Dele’s hip automatically, squeezing tightly. They stay still for a few moments before Dele steps away, quickly stripping out of his kit.

Eric watches Idly from the corner of his eye for a moment before he lets his gaze fall to some of the other boys in the room, Sonny sitting with headphones in, texting away on his phone. Eric smiles a small grin at that, glad to see the boy’s eyes clear of tears now.

Winksy is fresh out of the shower now, changing as he chats away to Kane, voices quiet.

The room seems to have an agreed tone.

For now, they mourn, they let the loss wash over them. Tomorrow there will be time for joking, building each other up, congratulations for the season they fought hard through and inspiring words from Pouch.

Now, now they let themselves feel the loss. It is important to feel it, contain it all to the night of the loss before turning and moving on. Otherwise, they will carry it longer, unable to fully let go.

Eric’s eyes swing back to Dele, the absent thought of showering on his mind again. The coach for the hotel would be leaving soon and he’d have to duck into the showers now if he wanted to wash off the sweat. While he’d only spent a quarter on the pitch, the rolling thick heat had drenched his skin in sweat. He rose his eyebrows when he spotted Dele, already changed into a pair of sweats and a loose white spurs shirt tugged over his torso, twisted and sticking from sweat, his feet shoved into a pair of slides.

Eric raised his brows just slightly, it was unlike Dele not to shower after a match, and he knew the silent invitation that was extended with this unusual action. Dele just shrugged back at Eric and went about collecting his things. Eric could see the shine in Dele’s eyes, the sheen of hidden tears and a disappointment. Eric understood then, standing to change his own clothing quickly. Ready to leave and head to the coach, Danny passed Eric with a scratch to the back of the head Eric patting him on the back in return. It continued this way, quiet commiserations and touches of comfort as they piled out of the venue and into the awaiting coach.

The leather of the seat was unwelcoming to Eric’s sweat sticky back and he grimaced slightly, pulling out his phone and fiddling with it, deciding if he wanted to switch it on. Just as his finger moved to press the power button and wake the device back up, a body slumped into the seat beside him. Eric dropped his phone to his lap and turned to the left slightly, eyes catching Dele’s. He was looking ahead, eyes lazily focused on the seat in front of him, but his hand was tilted to the left, offering an AirPod. Eric’s small grin pushed at the corner of his lips as he took the earphone, placing it in his ear firmly. It was only a fifteen-minute drive back to the hotel, but the music was always a welcome distraction.

After any other loss, Eric would already have a hand on dele’s knee or Dele would be laying his head on Eric’s shoulder, they’d be tangled together somehow. But Eric knew tonight was different, heavier. He didn’t push it, not now, he could see that dele was holding it together, all pieces pressed tight so they wouldn’t spill out. Dele was fearlessly himself, in a way Eric often envied but hurt, upset, disappointment, they were the emotions he kept tucked away, the true damage he felt only to be shown to a select few.

Instead, Eric focused on his teammates around him, watching Winks and Harry sitting beside each other, continuing their earlier conversation he assumed. It didn’t seem a serious chat, slightly glum maybe- Eric could only assume they were talking tactics, or about the game, something he knew Kane like to do, run over and over in his mind till he could put it to bed with his own understanding of the match and their errors. It was part of what made him a natural leader, his ability to look back and pick apart performance that was encouraging rather than disheartening. Sonny was off his phone now, leaning over the aisle to watch a video of Ayla that Toby was showing Jan.

From the distance Eric could see the little girl was in her Spurs shirt, blowing kisses to the camera. Eric smiles, chest warm- glad that Toby had that to look forward to when they got back to the hotel. Even in a loss, he still had his family to get him through it. His eyes drifted to Hugo, Moussa, Danny and Eriksen sat in a group, playing music from a phone and occasionally breaking the amicable silence with soft, short conversations.

He scanned his eyes over the rest of the team in the coach before looked down at his hands. He let out a slow breath, as the coach began to pull away from the stadium, a heavy feeling settling over the bus. It wasn’t sadness no, or anger- there was no tension, just a weight of an opportunity for glory lost. Disappointment, Eric thought errantly, tasted the most bitter, lasted the longer- it was always worse because you had the sweet taste of hope to compare it to. This small family, these boys- they’d be ok- Eric’s logical mind provided him. It was hard to focus on reality when he wanted to give into the errant ache in his chest, wallow in the feeling of a victory never obtained. He wished to be days past this, to already be training again with the England squad- something to give him purpose, to already be looking back and thinking, at least we gave it our all. Right now, it was hard to see anything but the loss. He swallows thickly and let his eyes slip closer, head resting back against the seat.

In the black of his mind, Eric sees himself walking forward to collect the medal, the boys trailing in behind him. He thinks now, that maybe it was foolish to push forward that way, that the media would find some way to weave that into a transfer rumour “Dier couldn’t wait to leave the pitch”. But it was the opposite, the action was for all his teammates- for the man sat next to him. Keep moving, we can keep moving, a reminder that they could keep going that they wouldn’t stay and fall apart. Even if it was hard to believe himself, he wanted to give them hope.

Absently Eric’s Hans moved to his own lower right side. He’d been late to go the hospital when his appendix ruptured- he’s assumed it was a bad cold and fever, determined to ignore the deep ache in his side.

Had he gotten to the hospital even ten minutes later he would have faced some pretty severe complications. Since the survey had to be so immediate the surgeon had to do an “open appendectomy” as the nurse had described. Dele from where he was sat at the end of the hospital bed had asked what that meant, She had explained that instead of the usual three small incisions they’d make, and use a small camera to guide the removal, they’d had to make one cut.

Instead of a few neat small dot scars, Eric had one 5cm long scar low on his abdomen. It looked nastier than it was, refusing to be as restful as he should have while it healed, he had caused the scar to stretch, the pink skin a little wider in the centre. Even now months later the skin had a pink tint to it, one that will fade to white eventually. He rubs his fingers over it through the thin fabric of his shirt.

Open surgery, he thinks absently, would be a good way to describe their path to Madrid. It could have been neater, clean cut, pre-planned. Instead, it had been last-minute goals, second chances from VAR, pure determination, working over injury after injury.

It had been last minute, rougher than expected. Open in every sense, bleeding their hearts into the pitch to fight their way through. Regardless, Eric thinks- the spurs, made their mark a big one. He thinks maybe had it been neat, controlled, they wouldn’t have made it as far as they had. His chest swelled at that thought, the Spurs leaving a bright red mark across the premier league.

The wound of the loss would heal but they would leave a brilliant scar of memories, last minute battles, an underdog story, of celebration, greatness despite all else. That would never fade no matter tonight’s outcome.

Eric was sure if he was ever to voice those thoughts out loud the boys would look at him like he’d lost it- even he would probably doubt it saying it out loud, but deep down the odd comparison settled a small feeling of pain in his chest. A touch to his hand snapped him back to the present, Dele’s slim fingers nudging Eric’s own hand away from his scar, squeezing his wrist once before letting go. Eric didn’t open his eyes but let a small smile grace his lips, breathing deep.

Moments passed in a haze of songs, Dele playing softer music than usual. Eric was surprised to hear a few of the Portuguese songs he’d showed Dele a few weeks ago over dinner, bickering about music taste.

Finally, they found themselves back at their accommodation, shuffling off the bus and into respective rooms with quick handshakes and hugs. Without any earphones in now, Eric hears Deles steps are solid behind his own, slipping into Eric’s room after him with not so much as a word.

Finally, in the silence of a room together, Eric feels some of the pressure roll off his back. There is no pressure to be the Eric the team relies upon, the one to still smile after a match and say we fought hard, next time for sure.

To be with Dele is to be himself completely, and the tension feels as if it is dripping off him now. Before Eric can speak, Dele is stepping out of his slides and pulling his shirt up over his head. As he undoes the knot of his sweatpants, Dele walks into the large en-suite bathroom.

Eric watches the delicate line of his muscled shoulders as he steps out of his final items of clothing, naked as he leans in to pull on the silver tap and start the shower.

It’s a modern hotel, and the bathroom is no exception. With a large rectangular head, the water flows down beautiful, plums of steam beginning to fill the white tiled room and fog the glass screen between the sink and shower. Eric strips out his clothes easily, knowing the uncomfortably sweaty ride on the coach had been worth waiting for. The crisp air-conditioned room had wiped Eric’s mind off the swelling heat outside and he’d come to crave the relief of a warm shower over his muscles. This was far better than the idea of a small low-pressure shower at the stadium. Besides, it was an obvious win with the boy that was currently standing under the running water, looking up through his lashes at him.

The air is thick as Eric steps onto the cold black tile, toes curling down. Dele’s eyes are dark and shining as he watches him, and for a fleeting moment, Eric tried to decipher the Dele waiting for him. There are two ways Dele goes after a loss, when he was young it was heartbreak almost always, tears and quietness, upset at himself and the result. He sought comfort and sweet words. Even before Eric and dele became ericandele, Eric had held him loss after loss, hand on the back of the neck, small jokes whispered to him, cups of tea made perfectly to his liking. As they’d grown together over the years Eric had seen another version of losing Dele. Now It manifested in one of two ways, heartbreak, as expected- or, anger. 

Thinking back, Eric can’t even remember now, no matter how hard he tries, what match it has been the first time Dele reacted in fury. But god, he knows the first spark of it he ever saw. Eric had been anticipating the usual, the quiet sadness, to coax Dele to stay together at one of their places or the hotel room- wherever they were staying. But god no, no that wasn’t the Dele he was met with, his touch to the back of the man’s neck had been soft- and met with a sharp shrug and a small scoff. “Fuck off Dier” he bit back swinging his arm and hitting him in the chest, words deeply acidic.

Angry Dele wanted a fight, wanted to scream and push back, to rip and rip at someone till they tore in right back. He took people down so someone would do just the same for him. Angry Dele soaked in the hurt of the loss, antagonised Trippier about the small mistakes till he told him to get fucked, annoyed and poked and prodded Sonny till even he wasn’t in the mood. However, Angry Dele’s favourite subject had, and always will be Eric. It took far more than Dele being awful to him to break him down, so he pushed even harder, persisted and persisted and played dirtier and scrappier.

However, Angry Dele had become far more fun, and easier to manage when everything really started between them. Eric could be rough with Dele how he needed it without having a verbal spat like he hated. The soft comforting touch on the back of his neck became a firm grip, Dele’s pushing and fighting became easy to combat with a mattress under them, a wall behind Dele’s back. While it was fun, hot- god stupidly hot, mind-blowing every time, it was exhausting mentally and physically it left Eric strung out, satisfied but aching all over.

Quietly Eric prayed for the softer Dele, exhausted from his own emotional turmoil over the night, feeling heavy at the prospect of carrying Dele’s pain on top of his own. “Del?” he asked quietly as he stepped into the water, hand reaching to check the temperature of the spray, it was the right edge of hot, enough to soothe muscle and tingle skin. Dele let out a low rumbling groan and turned his body around into the frame of Eric’s arms. “Hey” Eric tried again, arms wrapping around Dele’s hips, lips pressing two small kisses under the lobe of his ear. The skin was salty sweet still, Eric humming at the familiar taste on his tongue.

Dele sinks further back into Eric’s chest, warm skin pressing together and the lines of tension bunched across Eric’s shoulders relaxed. There was no anger in this body in his arms, no that had melted away somewhere between the sidelines and here, this small steam filled room, skin to skin.

“Hi”

Dele’s voice is low in reply, not quite cracking on the word, but not quite making it smoothly across the sound.

For just the blink of an eye, Eric is tempted to say something stupid, something playful and weird like ‘Do you come here often?’ in the hopes it would make his boy laugh, to feel the smile lines by his eyes crinkle up under the press of Eric’s lips. Eric’s skin presses to Dele’s in a way that distracts him, that lights a pleasant tingle in the base of his spine.

Instead, he worries on it for a few beats too long, the bathroom echoing the sound of water pounding tile, of their breaths panting out in heavy washes. The moment passes and Eric feels an empty wash of shame again. Maybe that had been his chance then, the moment where he could crack this heavy feeling, fizzle into each other and forget even just for an hour about the rest of the world, of the loss.

The word rings through Eric’s mind like a towing bell, loss, loss, loss; Eric loses himself to the feeling before he can decide he wants to, ducking his head down so that his forehead rests against Dele’s strong shoulder, water soaking over his head. It rushes in waves over his ears and neck, silencing the world around him, The weird water soaked echo of noise reminds him of pressing large sea shells over his ear when he was young. A small beach on the Algarve, sand between his toes and salt stuck to his skin.

The moment is lonely and Eric feels useless, hands grappling at Dele’s sides, trying to pull him closer. He had thought, truly that he was ok, that the loss had shattered but not broken him but he’s stuck, he’s suddenly run out of words for the boy he wanted to reassure more than anyone. Here in his arms, is everything, the reason behind most things now, for him- football, family, or Dele- almost always it’s one, or sometimes all that drives him day to day.

Now, when his words matter the most when he wants nothing more than to be the one dele needs, he comes up empty, just like he had in the match. Fuck. Eric grits his teeth at the thought, furious at himself for sinking so deep into what he spent the past hour trying to keep himself and everyone else out of.

“Hope you’re not thinking too hard big boy”

Dele’s voice is a sweet relief from his own brain, and the stupid pet name makes his chest run warm, arms squeezing around Dele’s body, biceps flexing as his hold firms. It was stupid really, the teasing nickname that stemmed from a drunk night together. Somehow it had become endearing. But Dele had a way of doing that.

“Might be” Eric conceited, rubbing his cheek against Dele’s skin in a way he knew left marks after.

“You think a buzz cut and a beard makes you a philosopher hmm? Get all up in your own head” he muttered, lithe hand lifting to the back of Eric’s head, fingers scratching gently over buzzed hair and scalp.

“Why don’t you stay here with me? Instead of there?” Dele asked, voice husky and sweet, fingers tapping his temple with his final word.

“Don’t know if you know this but I’m kinda a big deal on Instagram, few million followers, you know- you’re pretty lucky to be here with me” Dele coaxed Eric from where his face had pressed to his throat, locking eyes.

“Glad your confidence wasn’t knocked tonight” Eric mumbles, a tired frown between his brows as he reached for the showerhead, tilting it so that it hit the back of Dele’s neck and cascaded out and over Eric’s chest, warming them both but keeping the water from their eyes.

Despite the pit in his stomach, Eric can’t help but appreciate how beautiful Dele looks now, cheeks rose red, skin damp, hands holding him.

“When I’ve got a boy like this willing to wear my jersey even when I lose? How could I?” Dele teased, hand reaching to the side to pick up one of their body washes- pumping some onto Eric’s chest before he began to wash his skin in gentle circles.

“Wear your jersey? Kidding yourself Delboy, never see a number 20 on my back” Eric said, going for playful and only falling a little flat, a small smile tugging at his mouth.

“What are you talking about? You have number 20 on your back more times than not” Dele smirked, winking to seal the innuendo, hands still working over his skin, lathering over his sides.

A few quiet moments pass, Dele turning them so that Eric was under the water, washing the suds from his body, eyes pinned to the man’s chest.

“Del-” Eric whispers, hands moving to catch both of Dele’s hands against his chest. Dele opens his mouth, ready to interrupt when Eric shakes his head “Del” he repeats, catching his eyes in his own gaze. Finally, since the end of the match, Eric had locked eyes with Dele properly

“I- I really wanted it too”- Dele finally cracks, breathing in heavily. “Really fucking bad- I-” the way his voice catches his ugly, a skip of breath making him shudder.

The tears that Dele has blinked away for the better part of an hour finally make their escape, diving over his lashes and splashing out on his cheeks

“Everything; your appendix- our injuries, everything” Dele rolls his eyes and huffs, tears continuing to escape him against their will.

“I just”

Dele continues, swallowing hard “It felt like, we were finally- you know it was all worth the” Dele shakes his head, gritting teeth as a few more tears escape. Suddenly, Eric finds some footing in the dark- gathers Dele’s face between his hands their lips meet in a solid press, wet and warm, familiar. 

“I know, I know” the words are spoken into Deles mouth, small kisses pressed to Dele’s bottom lip as he keeps him close. “I did too Del. I hoped” Eric mumbles, gathering Dele into a proper hug, caging him in the frame of his body, as his own eyes sting at the sight of Dele’s tears.

Dele feels small this way, younger, pressed to his chest, able to be wrapped up by him completely. Eric’s heart aches at the pressure he knows exist on these two shoulders.

“We came so far- It’s not the same as winning. It can’t ever be, but god Dele we have so much- so much still the team, our fans - us.” Eric breaths, kissing the side of Dele’s nose, catching a stray tear.

“Everything we achieved this year we have it. We can never lose it. I’m just so proud of you Del.”

Eric pulls back then, thumbs circling on Deles cheeks. He can feel his own tears now, hot on his cheeks as he let out a dry laugh. “What a sight we are huh?”

Dele grins and pushes Eric’s shoulder, letting his head fall back under the fall of water. “Take a pic of me crying babe, sell it to the daily mail for a cheeky mil” Dele retorts, sharpening again where he had fallen soft.

Dele pauses and looks at him again, really looks at him, reaching up to dance his fingers along with the spikes of Eric’s hairline. “Proud of you too you know right? Can’t put into proper words even- I love you Diet- this, this is. Knowing I have you…” Dele trails off, hand falling to Eric’s bicep, holding loosely.

Eric nods, because it’s hard to find the right words, it has been since the final whistle, and he knows, Dele’s eyes, the way he holds to him. He understands, even when the words fail.

The skin of Eric’s fingers are wrinkled and pruned by the time they sprawl out in the king bed, piled half on top of each other. Television light washes low over the white covers and darkened room, the shifting of sheets audible over the low pitched volume.

“That’s such bullshit Diet- I do not love your wanky Portuguese music, two of like the twenty you played me were alright- I don’t even remember adding them to my playlist, Lucas probably nicked my phone and did it” Dele babbles away from where his head lays on Eric’s chest, toes drawing a line down Eric’s shin.

“You are so full of it” Eric rolls his eyes with an open-handed smack to the man’s side, laughing at the indignant groan Dele let out, flicking Eric hard on the nipple.

Eric huffs out “right” and flips them with ease, laying Dele on his back, hovering over him with a steeled gaze. “A little menace you are Dele, when we spend the summer in Portugal I’m teaching you how to be a nice boy” Eric words are slow and deliberate, expression unflinching as he feels Dele’s legs wrap around his waist.

“That’s hot” Dele mutters back, quirking a brow and wiggling his hips.

This, Eric thinks, is his favourite post-loss Dele, one he never knew existed, one he’d never looked for. This Dele looks after him too, they share the hurt and hold each other up, never letting one fall too far.

This, Eric thinks, does not remove the pain, the fear of how many he’s let down. It doesn’t make it any easier, facing the press, the stupid articles, seeing the videos and photos of twitter of his teammates and fans alike, mourning their loss. It won’t remove the way his brain picks to pieces each movement of the match, berates himself over any and all mistake.

While nothing can erase the loss, the falling short of the biggest victory- that stings the hardest, sits sharp in the back of his throat in every silence, every breath. But, this, having Dele, the laughs between kisses, someone who knows- without explanation- how every part of this feels; it makes it easier. The healing is faster.

Eric hopes then, that it helps the next victory arrive quicker too.

Clear eyes, full heart- and he can’t lose.

**Author's Note:**

> Request prompts or read more at my tumblr! :)


End file.
